


starless eyes remain

by bunnyctzen



Category: EXO (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Gen, it's just 1k of romantic blood prose lksjdgklj, sexy vampire jongin that no one asked for, theres a lot of blood in here its a fic about blood ok, well by definition one person asked for it but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyctzen/pseuds/bunnyctzen
Summary: every second counts, and yet, something holds him here. entrances him. he's stuck.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	starless eyes remain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akumiisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akumiisama/gifts).



> commission for longest and deepest lov of my life jess!!!!  
> im lov u id do anything for u :(((  
> ily4 !!! 🤚🏼🚀
> 
> im gonna be honest i didnt beta this it's like 4am and im tired ill edit for mistakes later ksdgkjsl

_drip. drip_.

 _tick. tick. tick_.

red saccharine puddles on wooding flooring.

a grandfather clock, mere minutes to midnight, echoes off of empty walls. every second counts, and yet, something holds him here. entrances him. he's stuck.

five bodies lay at jongin's feet, pallid and lifeless. half-lidded eyes that see nothing. the carnage is absolutely _everywhere_. he's drunk his fill and then some, but the hunger never relents—even when his stomach is so full that it sloshes when he moves too quickly, that craving feeling still burns in his decrepit veins. 

he hadn't planned for this; a miscommunication. generally, when jongin is invited over at this hour, he doesn't expect to be arm candy at an unlucky businessman's gathering. fewer clothes and seclusion are far more his style. 

jongin's thoughts are too hazy to quite place how he ended up here. there's a fog so thick in his skull that it turns liquid, and drips down walls of bone. every five ticks of the clock, his heart pumps thieved blood to all of his limbs and extremities. he feels warm. 

somewhere between politely smiling at elegantly dressed attendees with wine stained teeth and now, he supposes, he lost control. it's not his fault. he was starved. 

thirst scratched his throat hoarse, and drove his thoughts into a frenzy. it's not often jongin loses control like that—the partygoers hardly hesitated to indulge, and he's never been anything but a polite abiding guest. who would he have been to say no? 

he, too, felt inebriated and out of touch with his rational thought. they offered him a drink. he took one—or several too many, he supposes. enough that it never occurred to him to stop until the room was silent, and he was left with his thoughts. 

thoughts that pass like molasses; he feels properly drunk. soft eyed. subdued. _hot_. 

normally, he'd be halfway home by now. cleaned up. gone. 

_tick. tick. tick._

jongin feels his feet are bound where he stands, like roots have crawled up from the earth and entrap him. hold him steady. 

there's a full length mirror in front of him, and he can't take his eyes away from it. instead, he sees himself in slow motion. long blinks, and shallow breaths. 

below him, throats are torn beyond recognition, as if a rabid dog had been at them. he wears every bit of the evidence—thinking he'd rid himself of his clothes before he did the deed, he'd come in white cashmere. were he to lack this knowledge, his eyes would have him believe the fabric were originally crimson. deeply saturated, all over the front of him. it clings to him like a wet glove. 

the once hot liquid cools on his skin—its moisture evaporates into the air around him. it browns and thickens the longer it's exposed. 

the clock is ticking, and jongin can't take his eyes off of his own reflection. blood stains the corners of his mouth, and all down his own throat. it covers his hands, and trails down his forearms to his elbows. drips from his fingertips. 

when he brings them up to his face, he streaks fingers through blood spatter across his cheek, leaving lines of red in their wake. into his mouth, where he sucks lazily at the fluid. coats his tongue with it, and moans loosely. 

it's euphoric. 

every second counts, and he's looking down at hollowed corpses that grow colder to the touch with every passing minute. diamonds that resemble rubies. ornate dresses, and starched suits. 

the kind of people that will be missed. people that could draw attention on national news. 

jongin doesn't find himself to be bothered by it. by tangoing with time and fate. when his feet loosen their hold, they only bring him closer to his reflection. 

they don't coat the backs of mirrors in silver anymore, like they used to. for centuries, jongin missed out on all opportunities—save for polished gems and glass—to see his own reflection. times change, and new metals are discovered useful. less expensive, and easier to acquire. 

jongin gets to enjoy such a sight as this one—lax in sheer bliss, and covered head to toe in his dinner. the ends of his hair, too, drip blood. it collects at the bottom of his chin, and makes ravines of collarbones exposed by sagging fabric. down his thighs, and into his shoes. 

he draws closer, and his breath fogs up the surface. his pupils are blown. the surface is cold against the palm of his hand, and when his fingers start to chill, he lets it fall back to his side. 

someone's cell phone rings, and jongin is still watching himself. the rise and fall of his shoulders. each individual eyelash against the whites of his eyes. 

there's voices on the street outside, mere walls away from a horror scene, but he pays them no mind. he's so lost that he has no desire to be found. 

greedy fingers collect more blood, and his languid tongue leaves red saliva in its wake. his eyes roll back in his head—even just the taste is enough to drive him mad. 

_tick. tick. tick_. 

the clock rings a chorus of bells, dark and somber. haunting. 

the hour bell is struck twelve times, and the last ring lingers in the empty house. finds spaces in corners, and against windows, and along hardwood floors. 

jongin closes his eyes; if more are to come, he can handle them with ease. he has no reason to feel threatened. 

in this place, he's in a world of his own. every cell in his body, awakened, sings a chorus. delicate harmonies, and deep hollow drums. bells, and hearty brass. 

two more phones ring; their jarring tones clash violently in the quaint space. 

a knock sounds. a woman calls from outside, voice laced with concern. 

time is running out, yet, all that awaits jongin on the other side of the front door is a minor inconvenience. something easily handled. a palate cleanser. 

when jongin reopens his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk. 

"the door's unlocked." 

**Author's Note:**

> instead of brain there is jongin sexy 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/xingowo) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/xingowo) ♡


End file.
